


The Winchester Identity

by AliceInFlannel



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Action/Adventure, Amnesiac Dean Winchester, Anal Sex, Angst, BAMF Dean Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Blow Jobs, Bottom Castiel (Supernatural), Bottom Castiel/Top Dean Winchester, CIA Agent Dean Winchester, Federal Agent Dean Winchester, First Time, From Sex to Love, Gay Castiel (Supernatural), Hurt Castiel (Supernatural), M/M, POV Alternating, Pining Castiel (Supernatural), Russian Mafia, Spy Dean Winchester, Top Dean Winchester, Virgin Castiel (Supernatural)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-03-17
Updated: 2021-03-20
Packaged: 2021-03-26 12:35:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,856
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30106074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AliceInFlannel/pseuds/AliceInFlannel
Summary: After being disowned by his family for coming out as gay, Castiel wandered around Europe aimlessly looking for something to make him feel whole again. He found what he was looking for in a mysterious green-eyed man he met in a bar. The two of them had an intense fling that would end up changing Castiel’s life forever. He never expected to see Dean again, but fate brings them back together two years later. The only problem is that Dean has absolutely no memory of who he is.This is a Supernatural/Jason Bourne crossover. I'll be following the plot points of the movie for the most part, but I'm making the relationship more center-stage and adding in my own elements as well. Hope you enjoy it! Feel free to leave comments!!
Relationships: Castiel & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Dean Winchester
Kudos: 8





	1. Adrift

Garth never anticipated that he would like being a commercial deep-sea fisherman, but most of the time he enjoys the work. He loves being on the water and looking out at the endless ocean broken up only by the horizon and the sky above. He loves watching the sun peek up above the horizon as it rises and causes the waves around his ship to shimmer and sparkle like jewels. He loves being able to travel from port to port and country to country as he pleases. He loves the freedom this job gives him.

However, nights like this one make him want to rethink all of that. A storm has been brewing all evening. When it hits around midnight, it rocks the ship dangerously from side to side. The rest of his crew man their stations to control their route as best as they can, but Garth knows they’re going to be way off course come the morning. He sighs as he looks down at the docking schedule. They’re supposed to make port in Italy in two weeks, and they’ve barely started fishing these waters. Trips out to the deep ocean require a lot of planning and funding. They need to catch enough fish to make the trip worthwhile.

A knock on his cabin door interrupts his thoughts. “Captain Fitzgerald?”

“Come in,” Garth answers.

His first mate, Jim Myers, opens the door and quickly steps inside. “There’s something you need to come see,” he says. “We picked up a body.”

“You what?” Garth asks, standing up immediately. They’re in really deep waters outside of most commercial fishing areas. There shouldn’t be any other ships around them for miles, which means they shouldn’t be pulling any floaters out of the water either.

“It’s a man wearing full scuba gear,” Jim responds. “He had a flashing beacon on his suit. That’s how we saw him in the water.”

“Is he alive?” Garth asks, incredulously. Finding a scuba diver this far out in the ocean is unheard of, but it’d be even more insane if the man is still breathing.

“Yes, but he’s unconscious,” Jim says.

Garth nods, trying to contain his shock. “Okay, bring him in here.” Jim leaves the cabin, and Garth quickly clears off his desk. The ship is too small to have an infirmary, so this will have to do. In a past life, he was a dentist. Even though he’s not a doctor, he does have the most medical training out of anyone on board. Usually, he’s just required to patch up the occasional fishing injury. Sometimes people get hooks stuck in places they shouldn’t be or they become fatigued from being outside in the sun for too long. Those are things he can handle. He already knows this is going to be way beyond his area of expertise.

Garth watches while Jim and a couple other crew members bring the man’s body down into his cabin. They pull him onto the cleared off desk, and Garth thanks them before asking them to leave. He immediately notices two bullet holes in the man’s back. He carefully cuts through the man’s wetsuit to get access to his back. He’s able to remove both of the bullets from the wounds without waking the man up. He must be really out of it. There’s no way for Garth to tell how long he’s been floating in the ocean or how he’s still alive.

He examines the man for any other injuries after he’s finished sewing up the gunshot wounds on his back. When he gets to the man’s hip, he notices something protruding from under the skin. Garth takes his scalpel and makes an incision so he can see what the odd lump is. He gingerly pulls out a tiny metal implant. He gets up and heads over to the sink to wash the blood off of it so he can try and figure out what it is. There seems to be some sort of tiny button on one side of the implant. When he presses it, a red laser beam shoots out of the other end. When he points the beam at the wall it reveals a long list of numbers followed by the name of a bank in Zurich, Switzerland. Why does this man have the number for a Swiss bank account implanted in his hip? What the hell is going on here?

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

The man wakes up to the feeling that his back is on fire. If it weren’t for the pain, he would’ve assumed he was dead. In some ways, he feels dead, but he wouldn’t be in this much pain if he was dead, right? Unless he ended up in hell somehow. He opens his eyes and takes in his surroundings quickly. He’s lying on his stomach in what appears to be some sort of office. He’s on top of a hard surface, probably a desk, and there are some books and papers that look like they were shoved onto the floor to make room for him. The entire room seems to be rocking from side to side, so either he’s experiencing vertigo or he’s on a ship.

As he scans his surroundings, he sees a thin man on the other side of the room facing away from him. The man seems to be looking at something which gives him the time to quietly get off of the table and hide in the corner. When the man turns back around to look at the table, he quickly jumps out from the corner and puts the man into a chokehold.

“What the hell did you do to me?” He yells at the man. “Where am I?” The man chokes and tries to respond, but he’s holding him too hard. He lets his grip on the man loosen enough for him to reply but not enough for him to be able to break out of his hold.

“A fishing boat,” the man gasps for air. “We found you floating in the water.”

His back protests his sudden movements, but he tries his best to stay conscious and stable on his feet. “What water?” He gasps in pain.

“You’re in shock,” the man says. They’ve switched positions, and now the thin man is the one holding him up as his body tries to slump over. “Why do you have a bank number in your hip?”

“W-what?”

The man holds up a tiny metal cylinder. “This was implanted in your hip under the skin. Why is it there?”

He slumps over further as he feels the pain rush through him. “Son of a bitch,” he groans as his vision starts to grow blurry.

The lanky man guides him over towards a chair. “You need to rest.”

He shakes his head violently. He can’t rest. He’s in danger!

“It’s okay. You’re safe here,” the man says with a smile. “My name is Garth. Who are you?”

He thinks for a second. “I don’t know,” he gasps. “Oh, God.” He collapses, and everything goes black.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

Sam’s chest is tight as he hangs up the phone. He’s lived for the past six years with the knowledge that something like this could happen, but the empty feeling in his chest is proof that he never thought it would. Maybe that makes him naïve, but he doesn’t know how he would’ve been able to convince himself to get out of bed every morning if he’d truly believed something like this could happen.

He stands up on shaky legs to walk over towards his boss, Dick Roman’s office. He passes by Charlie’s desk and realizes that the look of horror and devastation on her face probably mirrors his own. After all, Charlie had probably been listening in on the call he just received.

Sam takes a deep breath before knocking three times on Dick Roman’s door. “Come in,” his boss orders.

Sam’s legs are still shaking, but he tries his best to keep his voice level and professional when he says the words he doesn’t want to believe. “It’s been confirmed, sir,” he says quietly. “Mission failed.”

Dick Roman looks down at the photograph of the yacht they’d been tracking and crumples it up in his fist. The fallout from this botched mission will be massive, but right now the only thing Sam is thinking about is his brother.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

The man wakes up the next morning to sunlight streaming in through one of the portholes on the side of the fishing boat. When he goes to the bathroom, he looks in the mirror for the first time to take in his expression. He recognizes the face staring back at him as his own, but he has no idea who he is. He doesn’t remember anything before waking up on the boat the night before. How is that even possible? As his face moves from neutral to confused, he decides that he looks like he’s in his late twenties to early thirties. He has green eyes and a smattering of freckles across his nose and cheekbones. His hair is light brown and short, almost militaristic.

He sighs and heads out to the main area of the ship where everyone is eating breakfast together at a table. They were laughing and chatting together moments ago, but they all grow quiet when he joins them. Garth brings over a bowl for him and leans in to say quietly, “Don’t pay attention to them. Some of the crew are superstitious about bringing you onto the ship. They think you’re a zombie.” He looks around at the rest of the crew in alarm, but Garth just chuckles. Although, if he was a zombie, that could explain the lack of memory.

Over the next two weeks, Garth teaches him the ropes on how to work a fishing boat. The crew starts to warm up to him a bit, but they never really involve him in their conversations or their late-night card games. That’s fine with him. He spends every waking moment that he’s not working trying to figure out who the hell he is and what happened to him. He stares at his mirror for hours hoping that if he looks at himself long enough, it’ll come back to him.

He has learned a few things about himself since he ended up on this ship. Each fact that he can compile about himself is like a precious stone plucked from the Earth. He stores them all away in his brain in the hopes that one day he’ll have a full identity. The first thing he learned is that he’s stubborn. That is obvious given the effort he’s putting in to try and force his brain to remember.

He frowns at himself in the mirror. Another thing he’s learned about himself is that he knows an alarming number of different languages according to Garth. Apparently, most people only know one or two languages at most. So far, Garth hasn't been able to come up with a language he can't at least say a few sentences in, much to the astonishment of the crew. “Est-ce que tu sais qui je suis?” He asks himself in French. _Do you know who I am?_ “Por favor dime quien eres!” He yells in Spanish. “Sag mir wer ich bin!” _Tell me who I am_ , in German. The face in the mirror never says anything back to him. How is it possible that he can effortlessly speak dozens of languages, but he doesn’t know his own name?

The next morning, he’s huddled over the maps in Garth’s cabin. The captain told him that he could feel free to look at them in the hopes that it would jog his memory of why he was out in the middle of the ocean when he was found. He’s been staring at them for days, but so far nothing. The longer he stands here, the more frustrated he becomes. 

He can sense Garth behind him before he speaks. “If you want to eat anything for breakfast, you better get in there,” the lanky man chuckles. “It’ll all be gone in a matter of minutes, you know that.”

He keeps looking at the maps. He’s onto something here. “Based on these charts, I think I may have been closer to the coast,” he says. “The current could’ve pushed me out to where you found me.”

“What’s this?” Garth asks. He turns around and sees Garth holding up a complicated knot he’d tied in a length of rope. “It’s starting to come back to you then?”

“No,” he says angrily, grabbing the rope. “It’s not coming back to me. The knot is like everything else. I just grabbed the rope, and I did it. The same way that I can read and write, tie my shoes, speak different languages, make a cup of coffee, play poker—"

“It’ll come back to you,” Garth interrupts his rambling with a soft smile. The captain is incredibly patient with him. That’s another thing he can add to his list: he gets angry easily.

He pauses and finally says aloud what he’s been worrying about for the past two weeks. “What if it doesn’t?” Garth just looks at him with a sad expression on his face, so he continues. “I’ve been down here for two weeks looking through all this shit, but I don’t even know what to look for. We’re going to make port tomorrow, and I don’t even have a name! All I have is this bank account number.”

Garth’s face is more serious when he replies. “It’ll come back to you. Now, come eat breakfast.”

The next day they pull into the port in Naples, Italy. He needs to find a way to get to Zurich. This bank account number is his only lead, and he’s going to follow it. Garth walks up to him and hands him a wad of cash. “It’s not too much, but it should be enough to cover a train ride to Switzerland,” Garth says, and he feels his eyes well up with tears at the kindness of this virtual stranger.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely.

Garth claps him on the shoulder. “I hope you find what you’re looking for.”

After the ship makes port, he heads off in the direction Garth points him. The train station is relatively easy to find, and he does have enough money to buy a ticket to Zurich. He only has a little bit of money left over, but hopefully there will be some more money in the bank account. What little he has left won’t be enough to survive on for more than a couple days. The train ride takes about eight hours. He tries to calm himself down enough to sleep for at least part of the journey, but it’s hard. Everything is riding on this bank account number. If it’s a dead end, he doesn’t know what he’s going to do. He’ll be stuck in the middle of Zurich with a couple bucks and no name.

By the time the train reaches its destination, it’s after midnight and snowing lightly. It’s way too late for him to be able to find a hotel to stay in. He doesn’t have enough money for that anyways. He wanders around past streets full of closed businesses until he reaches a park. There’s a bench on the edge of the park that he can rest on. It’s freezing cold even with the coat and gloves Garth gave him, but it’s only for a few hours until the bank opens up. Even though he’s incredibly uncomfortable, he must’ve been able to fall asleep because in what feels like the next minute, he’s being woken up by two police officers shining a flashlight in his face. He groans and covers his eyes before sitting up and trying to remember where he is.

One of the police officers leans down to look at him. “Kannst du die Zeichen nicht lesen? Der Park ist geschlossen.” The officers speaking German reminds him where he is. He tries to translate what they’ve asked him and come up with an appropriate response, but it’s difficult when he’s just woken up. “Im Park kann man nicht schlafen.” The officer nudges him with his baton and keeps shining the light at him.

“Alright, alright,” he grumbles, standing up.

“Geben Sie uns Ihren Ausweis,” the other officer speaks up. “Ihre Papiere bitte.”

They’re asking him for his identification papers, which is a bit hilarious, but he probably shouldn’t laugh under the circumstances. “My papers,” he starts. “I don’t have any papers… I lost them.” The officers stare at him in confusion. “Ich habe sie verloren. Meine Papiere sind verloren,” he explains. The officers look at each other, and he can tell the moment they decide to take him into their custody. He can’t let that happen. They’ll have more questions he won’t be able to answer. He needs to get into that bank.

One of the officers puts his baton on his shoulder. “Komm mit uns,” the policeman says harshly.

He doesn’t take even a second to think. He just reacts. He grabs the baton with his right hand, yanks it away from the first officer, and swings it into the second officer, knocking him down. In a blur of motion, he knocks both officers out with the baton and somehow ends up with one of their guns in his hands. After he realizes what he’s done, he quickly drops the gun and takes off the puffy, red coat Garth had given him to wear. It’ll be too identifiable when the officers regain consciousness. He runs out of the park and into the night.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

Sam sits nervously next to Dick Roman and Crowley while the director of the Central Intelligence Agency talks to the leaders of the various projects the C.I.A. has running right now. Sam was surprised when Dick Roman asked for him to join in on the meeting. He’s been working as Dick’s assistant for a couple years now, but he’s always just been an assistant. It looks like his boss is finally starting to view at him as an asset to the team. It’s only unfortunate that it’s happening now when his brother is somehow involved in the controversy being discussed at this meeting.

Crowley is one level above Dick. He is in charge of all of the various black-ops projects the C.I.A. is running under the radar of the rest of the agency. Dick is in charge of just one project—the project they’re all working on right now. This conference room is filled with higher ups and people who have been working for the agency for decades. Sam feels like he must stick out like a sore thumb. He tries his best to concentrate on the video feed they’re being shown. It’s a news interview with Lucifer Morningstar in Paris.

“I’m telling you,” Lucifer says angrily. “Everything I’m saying is the truth. These people have threatened me and my children. We are in the process of gathering evidence right now, and when it comes to light, I will have a nice, long story to tell all of you.” He turns to look directly at the camera. “And the people who have done this to me will be the ones in trouble then. If they tried to do this after I’ve been reasonable, there’s no telling what they’ll do next.”

The director of the C.I.A. pauses the video feed. “That’s Lucifer Morningstar speaking in Paris the day before yesterday. He was annoying before he took power from his brother in Kosovo, he was a problem when he was in power, and he’s been a disaster for us in exile.” He gets up and begins pacing around the room. Everybody has their eyes on him, and the room is so silent you could hear a pin drop. Sam tries to sink down in his chair without being too obvious, but that’s a difficult task since he’s six foot four.

The director of the C.I.A. continues to pace while he’s talking, looking each person in the eye as he passes them. “Lucifer is writing a book about the agency’s history in Europe and the Middle East,” he says seriously. “He’s going to name names. He’s threatening us that if we don’t put him back in power in six months, he’s going to release everything he has on us.” Sam sucks in a shocked breath along with a few other agents in the room. “In this interview, he goes on to talk about how he’s just survived an assassination attempt. He says it was us and that he has proof.” A few agents exchange glances. Sam would do just about anything to be able to disappear right now. “The President wants to know if there’s any truth to these allegations,” the director says harshly. “I told him that nobody on my senior staff would be this reckless, but we need to get control of this nevertheless.”

The director dismisses them, and Crowley motions for Dick and Sam to follow him. They walk down the long hallway, and then Crowley ducks into an empty room and quickly turns to glare at Dick Roman before seeming surprised that Sam is still there. “Leave,” he says simply.

Sam is about to run back to his office when Dick puts his hand on his shoulder to stop him. “It’s alright, Crowley. Sam can be trusted with this.”

Crowley stares at him for a minute but then shakes his head and continues on with what he was going to say. “The director’s speech in there made me think back to a conversation you and I had about the Men of Letters.” Sam watches Dick Roman flinch minutely before schooling his expression. “I seem to remember Lucifer’s name coming up during those discussions.”

“I’m not sure what you’re getting at,” Dick says evasively.

“Someone tried to kill him,” Crowley insists. “And whoever it was fucked it up massively and left a mess behind. You wouldn’t happen to know anything about that, would you?” Dick taps his finger against his leg for a few seconds before speaking again. Sam feels like he’s watching the tennis final at Wimbledon. Both of them are rallying back and forth, testing out each other’s weaknesses before one of them goes in for the winning shot.

“Are you asking me a direct question?” Dick asks, and Crowley nods. “You said you’d never do that.”

“And you’ve never made a mistake like this before,” Crowley huffs angrily. “So, it was you? Was it one of the Letters?” Dick hesitates before nodding. “What happened?!”

“We lost contact with our man,” Dick responds, and Sam flinches. Their man, being Dean.

“This was two weeks ago,” Crowley says indignantly. “Why wasn’t I made aware sooner?”

“We’ve been working around the clock to find him, I assure you. Nobody is going home. We’ve even been sleeping down there,” Dick says. “I promise, we’re doing everything we can.”

Crowley sighs. “Fix this, Roman. All of our asses are on the line here.” He opens the door and heads back into the hallway before Dick can respond.

Sam is about to follow him out, but Dick stops him again. “You know why I’m letting you in on this, right, Sam?”

Sam nods solemnly. “Because he’s my brother.”

“You’re a good kid, Sam,” Roman continues. “You’re going to make a fine agent one day, but I need to know that should the situation arise, you will stand behind your country, as you’ve taken an oath to do, and not your brother.”

Sam feels his boss's words settle like a rock in his gut. This was what he was afraid of. Not only is Dean missing, presumed dead, but if by some chance he is still alive, that would mean he’s a traitor to his country. Sam promised to stand by Dean through everything, but he’s not sure he can stand with him through this.

“I will do what is required of me,” Sam says quietly.

“That’s what I like to hear, kid,” Roman claps him on the back. “Now, come on. We have work to do.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I just used Google Translate for the dialogue in different languages, so if it's terrible, I apologize haha


	2. Fight or Flight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm posting a few chapters at once to try and get you hooked, and then I'll be doing my best to stick to a weekly update schedule from here on out

He’s shivering by the time morning finally comes, and the bank opens. He rushes inside immediately, sighing in relief at the feeling of the heaters slowly warming his freezing hands. The place is virtually empty aside from a few bank tellers and other workers milling around. Since the bank just opened a few minutes ago, he wouldn’t be surprised if he’s the first customer today. He steps forward to the front desk where a kind looking blonde woman is watching him approach with a small smile on her face. He feels his nerves spike as he thinks about what he’s about to do. He made sure to memorize the lengthy bank account number before he got here so that he doesn’t look suspicious. He only hopes they only need the number and won’t ask him for his name.

“Womit kann ich dir helfen?” The woman at the desk asks him in German.

“Yes, I’m here about a numbered account,” he says quietly, looking around to see if anyone is paying attention to him. Everyone seems to be going about their mornings without looking at him. That’s a good sign.

The woman pulls out a form and slides it across the desk to him. “Put your account number here, and then I’ll call an officer to bring you up,” she says in English. He quickly grabs a pen and writes down the ten-digit number from memory before sliding the form back across the table to her. Then she directs him to sit in the waiting area while she calls for someone to take him to his deposit box.

He bounces his foot anxiously while he waits. The moment a uniformed man steps out of the elevator to greet him, he stands up and walks over to him. They don’t speak at all during the awkward elevator ride up to the floor where the bank keeps the deposit boxes. He wonders if it’s because the officer doesn’t speak English or he just doesn’t want to force a conversation. Either way, he’s grateful.

When he steps out of the elevator, the man motions him to stop before he walks any further. “Lege deine Hand, bitte,” the officer says, pointing towards a flat tablet where he guesses he needs to put his handprint. He places his hand delicately on the tablet and nervously waits for the computer to scan him. After it scans his full hand and each of his individual fingerprints, the tablet turns green. The officer motions for him to follow him towards one of the curtained-off rooms where people can access their deposit boxes in peace. The officer brings him his box with the key and then steps out of the curtain, telling him that when he’s finished, he can drop off the deposit box at the front desk.

He stares at the box for a moment before taking a deep breath and opening it. This is the moment of proof. Hopefully there’s something inside that will tell him who he is. When he pulls off the lid of the deposit box, his eyes immediately take in the contents. There are contacts containers with cleaning solution. That’s odd because he isn’t wearing contacts right now, and he’s able to see clearly. He opens up the first contacts case and sees a pair of brown colored contacts. Inside the second case is a pair of blue contacts. He’s confused why he would need multiple colors of contact lenses when his own eyes are green, but he shakes his head and starts cataloguing the rest of the box. There’s a watch, a couple credit cards, a train pass for Paris, and finally, a United States passport. With shaking hands, he picks up the passport and opens it. Inside is a picture of himself with a name.

_Dean Winchester_.

He sits down in the chair and takes a deep breath. “My name is Dean Winchester,” he whispers to himself, testing out the sound of it. He can’t explain why, but it feels right. He smiles and reads the rest of the information on the passport. “My birthday is January, 24, 1979, and I live in Paris.”

He stands up again to look at the rest of the box. There doesn’t seem to be anything else, but the box is deep and everything was sitting on the top. He wonders if there’s some sort of secret compartment underneath. He fiddles with the box for a minute, and then he finds it. He pulls off the top section of the box and freezes. In the secret compartment there are multiple stacks of cash in different kinds of currency, five more passports, and two ten-millimeter handguns with extra ammunition.

Dean hears two pairs of footsteps walking down the hallway outside of the curtain, and he flinches. They pass along down the hall, and he tries to catch his breath. What the fuck is going on here?

He grabs the handful of passports and starts looking through them. The first one is for Brazil, and when he opens it, he sees a picture of himself with the name Diego Almeida. The second one is Russian. His hair is styled slightly differently, and he's wearing a turtleneck. The name for this one is written in Cyrillic, but Dean can read it: Dmitry Ivanov. The third one is for the U.K. and his name is Michael Charleston. The next is a Canadian passport, and his name is Dean Smith, and finally there’s a French passport with the name Dean Michael Cain. That last one only has the first page, as if the rest of it had been ripped off.

Dean can feel himself starting to panic. Something is very, very wrong here. His fight or flight instinct is skewed mostly towards flight at the moment. He acts quickly, grabbing the blue bag he was given to make his withdrawal. He dumps the entire contents of the safe deposit box into the bag. There has to be at least fifty-thousand dollars in here! He considers taking the guns with him, but ends up deciding to leave those and the extra ammunition in the box. He puts the secret compartment back inside and closes it up.

He cinches the bag, puts it over his shoulder, and takes the box out to the front desk where the officer who had helped him is sitting. He’s about to leave, but then he realizes he needs to ask something. “I’m trying to remember,” he says in German. “When was the last time I came here?” The bank officer thinks for a moment and then tells him it had to have been three weeks or maybe a month. Dean thanks him and walks quickly towards the elevator. As he’s walking away, he doesn’t notice the bank officer pull out a cellphone and quickly dial a number.

Dean leaves the bank and walks down the street towards where he’d seen a payphone earlier. With shaking hands, he dials the number for the Paris home address listed on his U.S. passport. He wants to call the apartment complex and see what they say.

“Hi, is this the Paris La Villete?” Dean asks when a woman answers.

“Yes,” she replies. “How can I assist you?”

“Do you have the number for a Dean Winchester there?”

There’s a moment of silence on the other end of the line while the woman clicks away at the computer. “Yes, would you like me to connect you?”

“Yes, please,” Dean replies. He wants to see if anybody answers. Obviously, some of these passports are fake, and he needs to figure out what information is real. Without knowing any better, it looks like he’s either some kind of criminal fugitive or a spy. Both possibilities are freaking him the fuck out.

The phone rings a few tones, and then an answering machine picks up. _“This is Dean. Leave your name, number, and assignment at the tone.”_ Dean quickly hangs up the phone. That’s his voice, but he has absolutely no memory of saving that voice message or of living in Paris at all. At least now he knows his real identity is Dean Winchester, the American living abroad in Paris for some reason. That’s a lot more than he had yesterday. 

He looks across the street from where he’s standing and sees a woman watching him. His skin crawls, and he has this feeling like there are eyes following his every move. He needs to get out of here! He grabs the bank bag and starts walking at a brisk pace, unsure of where he plans on going. He needs to figure out a way to get to Paris so he can check out his flat and see if he can find any information there. He walks past an elderly couple coming the other way down the sidewalk, and then he passes by a duo of police officers. Thankfully, they’re not the officers he beat up last night, but they do give him a lingering look as he passes them. He turns the corner and flinches as the sound of sirens approaches him. When the vehicle passes by, Dean sees it’s an ambulance, but he can’t shake this paranoid feeling that someone is out to get him. He’s proven right when he glances over his shoulder and sees the two cops he’d walked past earlier following him.

Dean starts walking even faster as he crosses the street into oncoming traffic. He reaches the other side just as a street trolley moves past behind him. The slow-moving trolley gives him a chance to gain some distance on the two officers following him. When he looks over his shoulder again, they’re still behind him and this time one of them is talking to someone on a walkie-talkie. They’re probably calling for backup. He needs to figure out a way out of this situation quickly. He doesn’t have a car, and he can’t stand in line and buy a train ticket to Paris. These guys are breathing down his neck!

His only option is to move forward and hope he can find some place to hide. He can’t explain it, but something in his gut is telling him that he can’t get caught. There’s a feeling or a memory struggling to break loose. Until it does, all Dean can do is follow his instincts, and his instincts are telling him to run and hide. He turns another corner and hears more sirens approaching. This time it’s definitely police cars. It might not be for him, but it also could be the backup the guys chasing him called in. He breathes a sigh of relief when he sees the American flag on a building one block away. That has to be the American Embassy. If he can make it to that building, he’ll be safe.

Dean pulls out his U.S. passport as he jogs towards the embassy. He shows it to the soldier guarding the door just as the police car stops outside and yells for him to stop. “I’m an American,” Dean says, showing the soldier the passport. The soldier nods and lets him go inside. As he steps inside, Dean can hear the soldier arguing with the Swiss police officers outside telling them that they have no jurisdiction in the embassy. This building is considered U.S. soil, so he’s safe here for the moment. He will need to find a way out of here at some point though.

He steps into the line for U.S. citizens and prepares to wait. The lines here are long. There are multiple booths open with people working at them, but he figures it’ll be a while before they get to him. That gives him time to think.

He’s immediately distracted from trying to come up with a plan by a man two lines over who’s yelling at the poor guy working that booth. “That isn’t my current address,” the man says angrily. “It _was_ my address until two days ago when I started standing in line outside. I lost my apartment, okay? So that means I have no address, no job, no money, and I still have no visa!” The man has broad, muscular shoulders that are barely hidden by the navy-blue sweater he’s wearing. His voice is very deep, and something about it makes Dean shiver involuntarily.

“Mr. Novak,” the attendant says politely, “Please calm down.”

“Where’s the woman I was talking to yesterday?” The man, Mr. Novak apparently, asks. “It’s snowing outside, and I have no place to stay! Every single day it’s a different person. How am I supposed to get this all figured out when I have to start over from scratch every time?” Dean thinks his accent sounds Russian, and he feels a strange sensation in his stomach. He hasn’t even seen this man’s face yet, but he can tell just from that voice that he has to be attractive.

“I don’t know who you were talking to yesterday, Mr. Novak,” the attendant sighs. “And I’ve already told you, there’s nothing I can do for you until this paperwork goes through. That could take weeks.”

“Great. I guess I’ll just freeze to death!” Mr. Novak yells before turning around to storm off. He meets Dean’s gaze for a second, and Dean’s shocked to see that this man has the bluest eyes he’s ever seen. The glare on his face turns quickly to shock and then embarrassment, before he runs outside.

For one stupid second, Dean wants to follow him, but he knows he can’t. This isn’t the time for a potential hook-up. The cops are outside, and it’s only a matter of time before they are allowed inside to arrest him for whatever it is they’re chasing him for. He feels eyes on him again, so he leaves the line and starts trying to head to the back of the building.

“Hey, you!” A voice shouts from behind him. It’s an American officer in a suit. He’s holding up a pair of handcuffs. “Yes, you with the blue bag. Stop right there! Put your hands up!”

Dean can feel his heart beating as he raises his arms above his head. He’s facing away from the officer, but he can hear his shoes clicking on the marble floor as he approaches. Everyone in the embassy has stopped what they’re doing to watch. Dean waits until the man is just behind him to move into action. He grabs the man’s arm and yanks it forward, ripping the handcuffs out of his hand before latching one end onto the wrist he’s holding and the other end onto a second soldier who moves forward to stop him. When he has those two out of the way, he takes out the third with a kick to the groin. He grabs the fourth by the neck and flings him onto the ground before grabbing his gun.

The people in line at the embassy start screaming once they see that he has a gun. Dean turns around quickly to make sure nobody is coming at him from behind. He sees a few more soldiers from the next room reacting to the sudden noise, but they stop approaching the moment they see he has a gun. He picks up the blue bag and sprints towards the stairs at the back of the building. The second he’s through the door and into the stairway, he hears a blaring alarm start to sound.

Dean is totally and utterly fucked. He knows in situations like these, you should never go up, but he doesn’t have much choice at the moment. He was on the ground floor already, and every exit down there is blocked. He starts climbing the stairs two steps at a time while he tries to figure out what he should do. He drops the gun he’d stolen into a trashcan at the landing of the second floor and turns to climb up the next staircase when he hears someone approaching from above.

“I’m on the east stairway—” The man says into his earpiece before Dean sucker punches him in the gut and sends him falling down the stairs. He’s about to keep climbing when he realizes it would be useful to grab the man’s earpiece so he can hear what the soldiers’ movements are and adjust himself accordingly. He runs down the stairs, grabs the earpiece, and sprints back up to where he was before. He sees a fire evacuation map taped to the wall, so he rips it off and memorizes all the exits and hiding places while running up the next set of stairs.

The alarms keep blaring as Dean walks through the second floor. Everyone who works in the building is panicking and locking their office doors as he walks past. He makes it to the west staircase in the hopes that he can sneak back downstairs and exit that way.

“ _Proceeding up the west staircase to the second floor_ ,” a voice says through the earpiece. Shit. There goes that plan. Dean runs quickly up to the third floor and continues climbing as he hears orders through the earpiece for the soldiers to check each floor room by room. He makes it up to the fifth floor which is the top floor of the building. Now he has to either find somewhere to hide where the soldiers won’t find him (unlikely) or he has to find a way out and down five stories so he can escape (also unlikely).

As he’s pondering his next move, he hears a voice through the earpiece. “ _Be advised, target may have an earpiece. Switching communications to Frequency 55. Repeat, switching all communications to Frequency 55_.” Well, it was good while it lasted. Dean pulls out the earpiece and drops it on the ground. He sees a door for an emergency exit and runs towards it. This exit wasn’t marked on the evacuation map he’d grabbed earlier, so that probably means it’s not a functioning exit. He’ll take whatever he can get at this point, and he’ll make it work.

Even though he has no idea who he is or why people are after him, he’s experiencing a strange set of calm. Now that he’s in motion, he’s letting his instincts take over. If he let’s himself just _do_ , he doesn’t have to worry about thinking. It’s almost like he’s been in this exact situation before, and it’s all muscle memory. Despite the alarms blaring all around him and the distant sounds of screaming as the soldiers shout orders and close in on him, he’s entirely confident in his ability to get out of this situation in one piece.

He opens the emergency exit door and finds himself in what looks like an unused locker room. At the end of the room there’s a door with a "warning high voltage" symbol on it next to a sign that says “don’t open.” Dean can add to his slowly growing list that he isn’t one to play by the rules. He knows that's true because he has no qualms about grabbing a nearby fire extinguisher and breaking the lock on the door. He steps through the door and closes it behind him. Now, he's in a tiny room with some whirring electrical equipment inside of it. There's another door at the other side of the room that's also locked. He breaks through that, and then he’s outside of the building. Everything is quiet and peaceful out here. He can still hear the muffled sound of the alarms from inside, but there’s a sense of calm out here.

He looks around him and sees that he’s standing on an old fire escape. The thing is rusty and creaky, and he doesn’t want to have to stand here any longer than he has to. It looks like it could give way at any moment. He looks down at the five story drop below him. There’s a snow drift on the ground, but jumping down from here would be a death sentence regardless of how much snow there is to cushion the landing.

There’s a sealed-up window a floor below him with a tiny ledge that he could potentially fit his feet into. There’s also the roof of the building about six feet above him. If he could get up onto the roof, he could potentially make it across to the next building over. It also looks to be five stories tall. He decides the second option is the better bet. He stands on top of the rickety railing to try and get high enough to where he can reach the edge of the roof and pull himself up. Unfortunately, the old partial fire escape breaks under his weight, and the bank bag slips off of his shoulders and falls five stories onto the snow. Shit.

He lowers himself back down onto the fire escape that’s now tilted and hanging on by what looks like only a few screws. He’s going to have to take the risk and get down to the window on the fourth floor. While he’s working out how exactly he needs to maneuver his body to make the ledge, he hears the door start to open. He has to move now! He drops down and manages to catch the ledge, gripping it with his toes as he pulls himself into the indentation of the sealed-up window and out of sight of the soldiers as they look down.

He’s so busy internally congratulating himself that he forgets about the bank bag on the ground. If they see that, it’s game over. Thankfully they seem to just do a cursory look out here, because a few seconds later, they re-enter the building and close the door. Dean releases a shaky exhale in relief.

He looks down at the bag and then around where he’s clinging to the building now four stories up. He grins when he notices small indentations in the siding of the building every few feet in parallel lines wrapping around the whole building. He can use those to get down. He takes it slow, making sure his grip with his hands is sure before lowering his feet to the next indentation. Eventually he’s close enough to the ground to be able to drop the few remaining feet. He dusts himself off, picks up the bag, and walks calmly away from the scene.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

Sam waits for Dick Roman in the parking garage of Langley. He's barely had time to wrap his head around the fact that Dean is alive before his boss pulls into the garage. He parks in his designated space and starts asking Sam questions the second he’s out of the door.

“He’s in Zurich?” Dick asks.

“Yes,” Sam replies. “It just came in.” He feels immensely relieved, but at the same time, he’s terrified. Since Dean is alive, that means he has to have gone rogue. That’s the only reason he wouldn’t have reported back in after the mission failed. Rogue agents are considered traitors. They know too many national secrets that they’re considered a security threat. They’re put down without thought or question. Sam’s throat constricts at the thought of his coworkers actively hunting down his brother, and at the fact that he’s going to be one of them.

“Are they sure it’s him?” Dick asks him incredulously. Two weeks with absolutely no news of Dean, and the entire unit had begun to think he was dead.

“Yes,” Sam says. “He went to the bank. Our source at the bank is the person who called it in.”

They step onto the elevator to take them up into the building. Dick pushes the button for their floor multiple times in his impatience. “Come on, come on!”

“He has to assume we’re watching the bank, right?” Sam asks.

“I don’t know,” Dick sighs in frustration.

“He cleaned out the box, but he left the guns. Why would he leave the guns?” Sam is desperately trying to assign any sort of reason to his brother’s actions. There has to be some explanation besides Dean going rogue. He just has to figure out what it is before they kill him.

“I said I don’t know!” Dick yells as the elevator finally reaches their floor. “I liked it better when I thought he was dead.” The two of them practically run to their office. They have a lot of work to do.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

Dean walks around the alleyway next to the building, looking for any sort of exit strategy. He knows the cops will have this place mostly locked down by now. He needs to find a car he can steal or something. When he turns the corner to the west side of the building, he sees the man in the blue sweater from earlier in the embassy. He’s muttering to himself as he looks at a ticket that’s been placed on his navy Prius for parking illegally next to a fire hydrant. The man crumples up the ticket and throws it on the ground.

“That’s littering, you know,” Dean says quietly, and the man flinches before looking up at him. Dean can still hear the alarms blaring from inside the building as well as the sound of more police sirens approaching. He tries to turn on the charm to get this guy to help him. “I heard you inside,” Dean starts, stepping towards the man.

“W-what?” He stutters. Dean wonders if this Novak guy knows he’s the one that everyone is looking for right now. Maybe that’s why he looks so shocked.

“In the embassy,” Dean explains, taking another step closer. “I heard you talking about your situation. I think maybe we can help each other.” He plasters a smile on his face for good measure.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” the man opens his car door like he’s prepared to drive off and leave him standing in the alley.

“Please,” Dean finds himself begging. He watches as the man's insanely blue eyes soften fractionally. “I need your help.”


	3. Men of Letters

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm picturing Castiel as how Misha looked when he was in 24. If you haven't seen what he looked like in 24, go look it up right now. It's definitely a look, and he also had an accent in that one
> 
> Another note: The present day takes place in 2005 so Dean is 27 and Cas is 31. Which means during the flashbacks, Dean is 25 and Cas is 29

Two Years Ago

* * *

Castiel flings back his third consecutive shot of tequila and winces as the liquid burns down his throat. He’s usually not much of a drinker, but he figures he has the perfect reason to make tonight an exception. A month ago, he came out as gay to his family. He’d thought they would be supportive of him, after all, it is a new millennium, but he’d been sadly mistaken. His parents kicked him out of the house without so much as a second thought. At 29 years old, he’s probably the oldest person alive to just now come out about his sexuality, but he didn’t exactly have the most normal upbringing. His parents are heavily involved in the political scene in Russia, and he’d tried his best to avoid that. He rejected his trust fund and his family legacy and decided to forge his own path. His brother Gabriel, the only family member he considers himself close with, did the same thing.

Castiel spent a few years working to save up enough money to go to university. He went to school in France, and that’s where he met Samandriel. The kid was twenty-one while Castiel was twenty-four, but the attraction he’d felt for him is what made him realize he’s gay. They never did more than exchange a few illicit kisses between classes, but it was enough. After he graduated and went back to Russia, he told his family. Whoever said the truth shall set you free never met the Novaks.

He’d already legally forfeited his rights to his inheritance, so all they had to do was kick him out the door. He only had enough money for a plane ticket back to Paris. Unfortunately, now he’s stuck here without an apartment since the school year is over. All of his friends have graduated, and he doesn’t have anywhere to stay. He needs to find a job, but for now, he needs to drink. He takes another shot.

“Woah, buddy,” a worried voice comes from next to him. “Might want to take it easy on the sauce there.” Castiel wants to ignore whoever it is, but he’s intrigued by the stranger’s American accent. They’re inside a tiny bar in the sketchier part of Paris. This isn’t somewhere a tourist would find themselves. He wonders how this American ended up here.

He meets the stranger’s eyes and does a double take. This man has the greenest eyes he’s ever seen. They have to be contacts or something because there’s no way that eye color actually exists outside of romance novels. The stranger’s face morphs into a smile when Castiel makes eye-contact, and the smile reveals perfectly straight teeth and slight dimples. Castiel wobbles a bit on his bar stool, and he’s unsure if it’s from the alcohol or the stupidly attractive man sitting next to him. “If you’d had the month I’ve had, you would understand,” Castiel finally replies, hoping the stranger can’t see him blushing in the darkness of the bar.

“I feel you there!” The stranger chuckles and then flags down the bartender. “Two more, please.” The bartender fills up two shot glasses and passes them over to the stranger who turns towards him and raises his eyebrows in a silent offer.

Castiel sighs. “I suppose one more can’t hurt.” He takes the offered drink and decides to sip it more slowly. He’s starting to feel a bit queasy, and he doesn’t want to throw up.

“So, Blue Eyes,” the stranger drawls, “What brings you to this fine establishment today?”

“Castiel,” he answers, though his heart stutters slightly at the nickname. He watches the stranger’s perfect lips mouth his name silently as if committing it to memory. “And I figured it was either this or wander aimlessly around the city waiting to get mugged.”

The man chuckles deeply. “Cute and funny.” He pauses for a second. “Seriously, though, do you want to talk about your horrible month or do you want to forget about it?” He winks after asking the question.

“Definitely the second option,” Castiel replies with a small smile. Is this man actually flirting with him? It seems like he is. He has no idea why, because this man is the single most attractive person he’s ever seen, and Castiel is just… Castiel.

The man puts a twenty on the bar and stands up. Castiel wonders how he could’ve messed this up, but then the man leans in close to him. For one agonizing second, he thinks the stranger is going to kiss him, but he changes direction at the last moment and ends up with his mouth next to Castiel’s ear. “My apartment is just a few blocks away,” the man whispers, and Castiel shivers as he feels goosebumps rise up on the back of his neck. “I can help you forget things there if you want me to.” Castiel just nods mutely. He can’t believe this is happening to him right now. It feels like a scene from a movie. The man exhales slowly against Castiel’s neck, and he shivers involuntarily again. “Okay, let’s go, Cas.”

The sound of the shortened version of his name breaks him out of whatever spell the man has over him, and he realizes he doesn’t even know him. He could be some sort of freak. “Wait,” Castiel says as the man starts gently leading him to the exit. “What’s your name?”

The man chuckles. “I’m Dean.”

Present Day

* * *

Castiel fumbles with his things as he tries to get back to his car and drive anywhere that’s far away from here. The last person he thought he’d ever see in Zurich of all places is Dean Winchester. After months of agonized waiting, he’d finally admitted to himself that he was never going to see Dean again. Then it took even longer after that to regain some semblance of control over his feelings.

To say that Dean had changed his life would be an understatement. He came into it like a fucking wrecking ball, crashing into him hard and leaving a mess behind. Despite how angry he’d been at the time, Castiel can’t find it in himself to resent Dean. The green-eyed man had broken his heart, but at the end of the day, Castiel only has himself to blame. Dean had warned him not to fall for him. It’s his own fault he didn’t listen. Still, never in a million years would he have expected to see Dean at the American embassy in Zurich. What the hell is he doing here?

He curses under his breath when he notices the parking ticket on the windshield of his Prius. He knew he was illegally parked, but he’d hoped he’d be able to get back to it before anyone saw it. His hands are still shaking as he crumples up the ticket and drops it onto the ground. Maybe Dean didn’t recognize him. They’d only made eye-contact for a couple seconds at which point Castiel had to get the fuck out of there. It’s been almost two years, and he’d thought he was finally over Dean for good. One look at that face is enough to show him how wrong he was about that. He’s definitely not over him.

“That’s littering, you know,” a voice says from behind him, and he jumps. He’d recognize that voice anywhere. He takes a deep breath and turns around. His memories didn’t do Dean justice. The man is even more beautiful than he was two years ago. It’s obvious that he’s aged a bit. There’s stubble growing in like he hasn’t shaved in a few days, and he has a wild look in his eyes. That could just be surprise at seeing Castiel again though. He’s sure his own eyes look pretty wild right now too. “I heard you inside,” Dean continues, stepping forward towards him.

“W-what?” Castiel wants to shake himself. He’s imagined what it would be like to see Dean again hundreds of times. He’s imagined in painstaking detail what he would say if he ever got the chance… what he would say to make Dean _stay_ , but all that comes out of his mouth is that one shaky word.

“In the embassy,” Dean explains like he’s stupid. “I heard you talking about your situation. I think maybe we can help each other.” Why is he speaking so formally? Has Dean actually forgotten him? That thought twists like a knife inside Castiel’s chest. Maybe he has forgotten. The weeks that meant so much to him, clearly didn’t mean anything to Dean. If they had, he wouldn’t have been able to leave so easily and in such a hurtful way too.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Castiel says to end the conversation. He needs to get out of here. He needs to find some cheap, rat-infested motel he can afford to stay at and go back to trying to forget all about Dean. Unfortunately, now he’s going to have to start that process all over again.

“Please, I need your help.” It’s the broken sound of his voice that does it. The Dean he knew would never beg for anything. Whatever is going on, it must be serious.

Castiel sighs and turns back around. When he does, Dean’s face lights up in a grin, though it does look a bit forced. “What do you want?” Castiel asks guardedly.

“Like I said, I think we can help each other,” Dean starts. “You need money, and I need a ride out of here.” He gestures towards Castiel’s Prius—the same Prius Dean had endlessly made fun of him for driving, and now he wants a ride in it? He’s definitely forgotten him. It’s not surprising, because Castiel is generally very forgettable.

“This isn’t a taxi,” Castiel says harshly to cover up the pain he’s in. Dean meant something to him, and even though he’s thought it many times, it hurts to have it confirmed that he meant nothing to Dean in return.

“Please,” Dean begs again. “I’ll give you ten thousand dollars to drive me to Paris.” _What the fuck?_

“Vy dumayete, chto ya polnyy durak?” Castiel mutters under his breath in Russian. Does Dean think he’s a fool?

“You’d be a fool not to take it,” Dean replies in Russian. He knew Dean was fluent in French and Spanish, but he didn’t realize he could also speak Russian. The sound of Dean’s voice speaking in his mother tongue does things to his insides that he doesn’t want to think about right now.

“What is this?” Castiel asks angrily. “Is this some sort of joke?” _Am I a joke to you?_ goes unsaid.

Dean shakes his head and reaches into the blue cinched bag he has over his right shoulder. “It’s no joke.” He tosses a stack of cash at Castiel, and he barely catches it. “There. That’s ten thousand U.S. dollars. I’ll give you ten thousand more when we get to Paris.”

Castiel looks down at the money in his hands to check if it’s real. Dean’s right that he needs money. With no place to stay and no visa, he was being serious when he yelled at the embassy worker earlier that he would freeze to death. He looks back up at Dean just as a police car siren starts up at the far end of the alley they’re standing in. Dean flinches and turns his back towards the car. It passes by, and once it’s out of earshot, Dean appears to relax.

“Is that for you?” Castiel asks, meaning the sirens.

“Look,” Dean sounds frustrated. “You drive, I pay. It’s that simple.”

Castiel scoffs. There Dean goes again, deciding things are simple when they’re obviously not. “I already have enough trouble as it is,” he says honestly. He always knew Dean was mysterious and dangerous. That was part of the thrill of being with him, but it’s also probably why Castiel got his heart wrecked. He can’t afford to trust someone like that. He’s not going to make the same mistake twice.

Two Years Ago

* * *

They’ve barely stumbled out of the bar when Dean pushes him into a dark alleyway. He backs Castiel up until his back hits the brick side of the building. His breath hitches as Dean closes in on him, bracing both of his hands on the wall on each side of his face. Castiel knows he should be afraid — he doesn’t know this guy, and now he’s essentially trapped in an alley with him — but for some reason, he feels safe. Dean starts to lean in towards him infuriatingly slowly, and Castiel hears a noise that sounds like a pitiful whine. It takes him a second to realize the noise came from him.

“Fuck, Cas, I haven’t even touched you yet,” Dean groans, pressing the full length of his body against his own. Dean is wearing a flannel over-shirt with a plain grey t-shirt underneath. Nothing about his outfit could’ve prepared Castiel for the solid feeling of muscle that’s pressed up against his chest right now. It’s totally unfair that Dean would be blessed with a perfect face _and_ a perfect body. Castiel whines again, and Dean finally closes the distance between them. When their lips meet, it’s like a spark ignites in his gut. His kisses with Samandriel never left him feeling like this, and those were decidedly less chaste than this is.

Dean pulls back, his pupils dilated in the dark. “Is this alright?” He asks gruffly. Castiel can’t seem to figure out how to make his words work, so he just nods, and Dean leans in again. This time he kisses him with more force. Castiel feels his tongue swipe at his lips, and he immediately opens up to let Dean in. The two of them groan simultaneously when their tongues meet. “Fuck,” Dean says again, pulling back. “Let’s get back to my place.”

Dean takes him by the hand and practically drags him through the streets until they’ve stopped at a decent looking apartment building. He pulls out a key and opens the door before pulling Castiel inside. They have to climb up to the third floor which takes about ten minutes because they keep getting distracted with kissing each other.

When they’ve finally made it to Dean’s apartment, Castiel barely has a chance to take in the scant furniture before Dean is lifting him up into his arms and carrying him effortlessly into his bedroom. Fuck, he’s _strong_. The fact that this man who looks to be about his size, maybe a couple inches taller but also a few years younger, is strong enough to pick him up and carry him is incredibly hot.

Dean dumps him onto the bed and is about to climb onto the mattress after him when Castiel groans, and not in the sexy way. “Shit,” Dean curses under his breath before scrambling away to grab the small trash can on the other side of the room. He gets it in place just as Castiel starts vomiting up the contents of his stomach. He’s too busy being sick to be embarrassed, but he figures that’ll come later when he’s not so drunk. He feels Dean rubbing soothing circles on his back while he waits for Castiel to finish puking.

After a few minutes, Castiel groans again and wipes off his mouth. “Better out than in,” Dean says, handing him a bottle of water which he eagerly drinks.

“I’m sorry,” Castiel says, and he is. He had a chance to lose his virginity to someone like Dean, and he’s gone and ruined it.

“Nah, it’s okay,” Dean says with a soft smile. “Actually, it’s probably for the best.” Castiel flinches. He knew Dean was going to regret taking him home. He’s about to stand up to leave when Dean starts speaking again, “We’re both probably too drunk to be doing this right now.”

Maybe Dean doesn’t regret taking him home. “But I want to,” Castiel complains. He realizes he must sound like a child right now, but he doesn’t care.

Dean laughs, and it might be the best sound Castiel has ever heard. It’s even better than the noises he was making while they were kissing. “So do I, but we should wait until we sober up.”

“Do we have to?”

“Yes,” Dean insists, placing a kiss on his temple. He helps him lay down on the bed, and Castiel groans as the room continues to spin around him. At least he doesn’t think he’ll have to puke anymore. “Go to sleep, Cas. You're safe here.” Castiel drifts off to the feeling of Dean gently carding his fingers through his sweaty hair.

He wakes up the next morning with a wicked hangover and a fuzzy memory. The angle of the sunlight shining through the window is different from what he’s used to. He sits up abruptly when he remembers that he’s not in his own house. His head spins at the quick movement, but eventually it settles again. His head pounds, and he knows he must be really hung over.

“Morning, Sunshine,” Dean says, striding into the bedroom carrying a tray with him. Last night wasn’t a figment of his imagination then. Castiel actually went home with this Greek god of a man only to puke up his guts before they got to the main event. He groans in embarrassment. “Here,” Dean says, placing the tray down next to him and climbing up to join him on the bed. “Eat some protein. It’ll help with the hangover.”

Castiel looks down at the tray and sees two mugs of coffee, scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast. Dean made him breakfast? Something bigger than butterflies seems to have taken up residence behind his ribcage. “You didn’t have to,” he manages to say.

“Of course, I did,” Dean laughs, leaning over to grab a piece of bacon. He doesn’t break eye contact with Castiel as he takes a bite and chews thoughtfully. Castiel feels like he might self-combust at any moment. How is everything Dean does sexy? Castiel picks up a piece of bacon and mimics him. It looks like Dean’s eyes darken slightly, but before he can tell for sure, the green-eyed man looks away and coughs into his hand. Castiel finishes that piece of bacon and takes a sip of the coffee. It’s made just the way he likes it.

“So,” Dean coughs again. “What are your plans for the day?”

Castiel stiffens. Dean must be implying that he wants him to leave. He made breakfast out of courtesy, but after that’s finished, he’ll obviously want Castiel out of his apartment and out of his life. “I don’t have anything planned, but I’ll get out of your hair,” he says quietly. He does need to figure out some sort of living situation since all of his old university friends have graduated.

Dean stops mid-bite. “That’s not what I meant,” he says. “You can stay here longer if you want to.” Castiel’s eyes flash up to meet his, and he can see that Dean’s blushing. The pink in his cheeks contrasts nicely with his freckles. “I actually…” Dean starts and then clears his throat again, “I don’t have any plans either.” Castiel nods, not really understanding what he’s getting at. He watches Dean take a breath before he speaks again. “Would you like to pick up where we left off?”

Castiel’s eyes widen. Does that mean he still wants to? “Y-yes,” is all he manages to get out. Dean pushes the breakfast tray out of the way, crawls closer to him, and meets his lips in a searing kiss.

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

Dean shifts awkwardly from foot to foot while he waits for this Novak guy to decide whether or not he’s going to help him. It doesn’t really matter, because either way, Dean is going to take the car. He would just rather it be a mutual agreement than have to beat this guy up and forcibly take it.

He’d thought Novak was attractive from far away, but he’s even more attractive up close. His eyes are insanely blue and magnetic. His hair is dirty blond and shoulder length, and Dean wants to know what it feels like between his fingers. The thought of spending six and a half hours in close quarters in a car with him is giving Dean butterflies. Obviously, nothing is going to happen. They’re just two people mutually benefiting from helping each other out. Besides, Dean may or may not have people trying to kill him. Now isn’t the time to try and seduce this guy. _Though he wouldn’t mind if he ended up having to._

The man looks up at him with an unreadable expression on his face. Dean waits for him to say something, but he just stares at him. “Okay, can I at least have my money back?” Dean asks. He really doesn’t want to have to mess up this guy’s beautiful face, but that seems to be where this exchange is headed. He needs to leave now, and he needs to leave in that car.

The man looks back down at the money in his hands and sighs audibly. “Get in."

<<<<<<<<<<>>>>>>>>>>

The office is a flurry of activity when Sam enters it. Everyone, or at least everyone in their unit, has apparently been made aware of the situation. He shoots a concerned look towards Charlie, but she immediately turns away. Sam gets it. Dean is a traitor, and right now they’re working to bring him to justice. If Charlie or Sam act too friendly or seem in any way opposed to the idea of taking Dean out, it could be bad for them too. It’s going to be a tricky situation. He just knows that he has to find a way to help his brother, even if it puts himself in danger.

“Alright, people,” Dick Roman claps his hands together. “Move it! Let’s go!”

Up on the main video screen they’re searching through surveillance footage from Zurich. They only have access to a couple of street cameras, but there is a camera facing the entrance of the bank. They’re watching the feed from around the time their agent made the call that Dean had just left, but they pass the time and never see him exit the bank.

Sam tries to hide his smile. Dean is the best black-ops agent the C.I.A. has. They always send him on the most difficult missions because he always executes them flawlessly. That’s why it’s so weird that he failed this mission and has supposedly gone rogue. Sam still partially wonders if this entire thing is all just some big misunderstanding. Maybe they should try contacting him instead of jumping straight to executing him. Not that it matters, because they could have the entire agency out chasing Dean forever, and they’d never be able to catch him if he didn’t want to be found. He’s that good.

“Come on, folks, we’ve caught a break here,” Dick Roman tries to encourage them. “We know with certainty that he was in Zurich this morning.”

“I’m in their system,” Charlie announces. “Looking at airlines, trains, hotels, and hospitals.”

“Good work,” Dick says. “Let me know if anything pans out.”

“Wait, I think I’ve got something,” Ash says from where he’s looking at the surveillance footage. It’s a still shot from a surveillance camera across the street from the bank. The picture is clearly of Dean walking purposefully across the street with a bag slung over one shoulder. “It’s from forty minutes ago.”

“He has to be in the area then,” Roman grins, but Sam feels sick to his stomach. That’s not enough time for Dean to get out of there, especially with Charlie watching the trains and airlines.

Crowley strides into the office with a purpose. Normally he stays in one of the penthouse offices with the other higher-ups, but Sam assumes he wants to have his nose to the ground on this case. Or at least have his eye on how Roman is managing the situation. “I just got off the phone with the Zurich police,” Crowley announces. “They’re looking for a white male, mid-twenties carrying a blue bank bag. He just tore up the U.S. embassy and put four police officers in the hospital. Two of them are in critical condition after he beat them unconscious last night.”

Sam feels his stomach drop. Dean’s definitely gone rogue then. He honestly can’t believe it. Dean can get a little angry or reckless at times, but he’d never do something this stupid without a good reason. Sam just has no idea what that reason could be.

Dick turns to look directly at him, and Sam tries his best not to show any emotions on his face. “I want you to activate all of the Letters,” Dick points at him. “Do it, now!”

“Wait,” Sam says. “All of them?” They’ve never done that before.

“All of them,” Dick repeats himself. “I want Dean in a body-bag by sundown. Gordon is in Germany right now, so he should be the closest.”

Sam’s hands shake while he pulls up the activation codes for the Men of Letters on his computer. Whenever anyone joins this elite black-ops team, they know that there’s a chance they’ll be tasked with killing one of their co-workers. They’ve been trained so well that generally, the only people who have a chance to take them out are each other. That’s why it helps that most of them are used to working alone. Sam knows Dean and Gordon can’t stand each other, so it won’t be hard for Gordon to do this. Benny, on the other hand, is a different story. He’s in Russia right now though as far as Sam is aware.

He prints off the code sheet and goes into Dick’s private office to make the calls where it’s quieter. He can feel Charlie’s eyes on his as he passes her desk, but she doesn’t say anything. She’s busy showing Roman and Crowley a map of the various streets around the embassy.

Sam calls Gordon first. “VampireSlayer, you’re activated. Giving you authorization to use any necessary measures to neutralize Impala67.”

He hears a low chuckle come across the line. “Sammy, I am going to greatly enjoy killing your big brother.”

Sam grits his teeth and whispers harshly, “I’d love to see you try,” before hanging up. The sense of bravado dissipates as soon as the call is over though. Gordan is very good. Dean is better, but all it takes is one mistake. Especially if all of the Letters are sent after him at the same time. Sam swallows past the lump in his throat and makes the other three calls.


End file.
